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Abduction, Seduction–only two letters different
[For BadAlterEgo]
I owe a lot to the Army. Stupid fuckers. Gorillas in the mist. If it wasn’t for them moron GIs, I wouldn’ta known the power of a simple li’l traffic ticket and the power I got as an Air Force MP.
Think about it: the military is federal, right?–on an Air Force Base, you do something wrong, like toss a gum wrapper on the sidewalk, you get a ticket from an MP. You don’t pay it, you’re facing Federal Court (and the FBI banging on your door). Even worse if you ain’t in the Air Force.
Hill Air Force Base, Clearfield, Utah, is a Materiel Command installation–we got all them F-16 Fighting Falcons, A-10 Thunderbolts, C-130 Hercules cargo planes, even Minuteman intercontinental missiles, and all of ’em gets their parts sent from Hill or the planes themselves is repaired here.
Hill’s a big place. Big base exchange. Huge commissary. We also got a golf course, bowling alley, movie theaters, all that stuff–and since anybody in the military gets into any base of the other services just with military ID, we regularly get crowds of soldiers, sailors, and Marines from the smaller installations around us.
Like I was saying, a ticket is worse for them because if, say, an Army grunt gets in trouble at Hill, he gets out of AF clutches only when his commanding officer signs papers, kisses Air Force ass, and sends somebody to take the guy back. And that means soldiers’ll do anything, anything to get out of an Air Force ticket. And get off the shit-lists of their COs.
A young MP like me, healthy sex-drive, can think of dozens of ways for a GI to “work his way out of a ticket.” I always get ’em–younger guys, away home the first time in their lives, not even at their home posts, kicking up their heels. Speeding down Hill’s roads (if they have cars). Drinking too much in the NCO clubs. Whistling at girls.
And that’s where I come in. “Sixty miles an hour in a 30mph zone won’t cut it on an Air Force base, Sergeant. They let you do that in the Army?”
The poor bastard can’t believe what’s happening. His whole life is passing before his eyes as a monster Air Force MP barbarian looks down at him. He’s hoping the Army won’t let anything happen to him–but the big, brawny, pissed-off MP is scary (MPs are always huge, and I’m bigger’n most), and when he hears about the “federal courts,” the “FBI,” and that his CO will hear about it, he’s thinking maybe he better worry after all.
Always happens. Let a man simmer a little in his own juices, and suddenly he’s “reasonable”: “C’mon, Sarge, I didn’t mean nothing. Nobody got hurt. Be a dude. Lemme go, and I won’t come back.”
“Naw. Gotta write you up.”
“No, please! Don’t! Look, man, there’s gotta be something I can do.” He looks up at me. “I’ll do anything!”
The magic words.
Summary Justice
Happens every time: To cut a long story short, a little later, both our cars off the roads in the trees, he’s sucking my cock while I’m stripping him to the waist, prepping him for Round Two. It’s broad daylight, but we’re behind some parked trucks. And away from his friends, he’s learning something new.
I run my rough hand along his soft titties–no matter how tough the guy, the skin ’round his nipples is always tender, so I’m rough, groping, pinching, my ol’ dry, calloused fingers rubbing and squeezing, and the poor jerk’s grunting with each pinch. It starts out as pain, all right, but he’s soon feeling something else–his body turning on him, betraying him. Finds himself feeling stuff he never thought he could.
His hands struggle up to cup my balls, maybe thinking that if he can just get me to cum, it will all be over. Wrong. I unbuckle his pants and spin him to face away from me, then yank ’em down.
“Oh, God!”
Yep, he feels my hard boner against his butt, sliding into his crack. Poor bastard can’t believe his own reaction, but by then he’s horny, and his asshole feels “funny.” Ready for something he can’t imagine–nobody’s ever done that to him before.
Something thick and long slides up inside, and he’s ashamed, feelin’ the pain, but somehow he’s teased–it’s more, like “invigoratin'” stuff than he’s ever felt. Never dreamed a man could make him feel that way. And in such a place, the boondocks of an Air Force base. In broad daylight.
All I got to do is let nature take its course. Soon the guy’s passion grows hotter, and he’s feeling so good, so real, so natural, he slips out of control. Poor little shit. Shame mixed with desire. His hips push back at me, trying to get my dick in deeper.
I can make him lose it–just a quick reach-around, grab his rod, jack him off in the rhythm I’m boinking him with, and–works every time–he lets out a helpless growl and goes into an orgasm, his pecker splattering Air Force property with jizz.
The last manly act of a dude losing his cherry.
It gets worse for him, though. When he bahis firmaları feels my USAF spunk spurting up his hole, he’s bred, spermed, taking another man’s jizz. I’ve scored his ass, another Army asshole in my harem.
I want to get my dong tattooed like a WW II fighter plane, like those with swastikas painted on their noses for enemies shot down, but instead my cock’ll get a little cherry for every guy whose ass is mine. I ain’t done that yet, of course–can’t have an Air Force doctor taking note of such a thing. Could ruin my chances for promotion.
The Strange Days
It all starts with a wreck. Late afternoon, patrolling a remote part of the base, far north end, I spot an accident on Perimeter Road. On a sharp curve, somebody was driving too fast and lost control. The car’s 100 feet or so from the road, in a ditch, all banged up. Sitting on the fender is a man in green Army cammo fatigues. An officer. “You okay, sir?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t hurt. I had the seatbelt on. Just shook up a little bit.” He puts his head down in his hands.
He doesn’t look injured, but he’s shaking a little. I’m thinking, What the hell. “Need a drink, sir?”
“Yeah. I could sure use one.” I fetch out my hip flask, and he smiles. “Got any olives?”
We chuckle. He takes a pull on it, hands it back, and I take one, myself. “No cocktail glasses, either, sir.” I hold up the hip flask. “Us enlisted men gotta swap spit with a flask.” We laugh. He’s getting a little calmer.
He’s a young first lieutenant, about my age. Smaller guy, maybe 5`9″. Looks like a rocket, though–slender, compact. Swimmer’s build, probably. Nice face. Like Leonardo DiCaprio, that guy in “Titanic”–oval, sorta, with a lot of expressions. Pug nose keeps him from being too beautiful. He’s holding his green baseball cap in his hand, so I get a good look at blond hair in an Army crewcut.
But he’s looking me over, too: “I’ll bet you’re a babe-magnet, Sergeant. With a body like that, you’re a real Mr. Universe. Funny that Army Special Forces didn’t snap you up before the Air Force did.”
“I like the Air Force, sir. Flying carpet. I can fly anywhere in the world–in fourth class.” We laugh again. “Where are you stationed, Lieutenant?”
“Michael Army Airfield.”
“Oh, you’re a helicopter pilot?”
“Naw. Michael is the runway, the air support facility for Dugway Proving Grounds.”
“I haven’t been here very long, sir. Where’s Dugway?”
He leans back against his banged-up car. “About 80 miles southwest of Salt Lake City, out in the Great Salt Lake Desert.”
“Never heard of it.”
He smiles. “Most secret installation in Utah. Chemical, biological, environmental testing.”
“Wow, dangerous stuff?”
“Yeah, they’ve had a few scandals. Flocks of sheep killed by escaped poison gas, humans killed in experiments gone wrong. Lawsuits about contaminated soil.”
I think about then my whiskey hits him because he looks from side to side and lowers his voice. “Civilians call it the new Area 51. UFO hunters spotted more weird stuff around Dugway than anywhere else in Utah.”
“Really? I love UFOs. I’m a science fiction nut. You ever seen one, sir?”
He looks at me. “Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Yak, yak. I like him. A good guy. Unlike most officers, particularly them lower-level ones, lieutenants trying to kick-ass their way up the ladder. “I can tell you,” he goes on, still in that low-voice, secrety tone, “we have a new runway now. For testing NASA’s next space shuttles, also the X-33.” He looks up at me.
“Wow” is all I can think of to say.
Again he lowers his voice, “UFO watchers talk about ‘unusual aerial objects and mysterious contrails.’ They figure Michael Field is a secret test facility for new, secret aircraft.”
“Think maybe I could drive over there, sir, and maybe get some pictures?”
He laughs. “Security is tight. Warning signs all around the perimeter. You get too close, and an unmarked black helicopter will come after you–and it can blast your ass off the planet if you resist.”
I look down at the hip flask for a moment, then up to find him staring hard at me–well, not exactly me. Down at my hard. Damn! I didn’t think anything about coming on to him, but my cock is throbbing. It knows something I don’t.
His eyes rise up and meet mine. And something clicks. “You’re such a big man, Sergeant.” He isn’t smiling. “How big are you?”
I have this eerie feeling he’s asking for length, not height or weight, but I play it safe: “Six foot three, sir. Weigh 250 pounds.”
“With arms like those–and that barrel chest–you’re a Mr. Universe. I guess not many guys will take you on.”
I smile like I’m supposed to. “You’re in pretty good shape yourself, sir. How much do you weigh?”
He chuckles. “196 naked and dripping wet.” But our eyes still lock into each other’s. He rubs his hand slowly, casual-like, down over his kaçak iddaa chest and belly. And lower. Finally he’s gropin’ the bulge between his legs, adjustin’ himself, all natural-like, but his eyes stare into mine.
I decide to go for it: “I’d like to see that naked and dripping wet.”
Bingo. His mouth curls up into a smile.
But just then–Dammit!–the ambulance and a couple of HAFB MP cars come around the corner. “We’ll have to get together,” he says , but it’s in a soft growl, and he pulls a card out of his pocket:
1LT Roger K. Caulfax
US Army
Michael Army Airfield
Dugway, Utah
(801)-555-7364
“Call me.” He looks deeper into my eyes. As the official vehicles slow and stop, he mutters, “I”d like to know Mr. Universe a little better.”
As I drive back to the barracks, my shift over, I’m a little dizzy. For one thing, I never met such a fucking turn-on. Handsome guy. In good shape. An officer. And coming on to me, too. I’m also dizzy because my ramrod is so hard, there’s barely enough blood left for the brain.
I go through the rest of the day, can’t stop thinking about him. First Lieutenant Roger K. Caulfax. I’m still hard for him as I hit the sack that night and spend the night tossing and turning. Finally, after formation and getting my assignment the next morning, I drive off-base and call that Dugway number from a pay phone.
“Hey, Sergeant Kernigin, good to hear from you.”
“Bagged any alien bein’s lately, sir?”
“Nope, just one that came upon me at Hill Air Force Base.” He pauses. “You up for being kidnapped by aliens?”
Then it’s my turn to pause. “What you got in mind, Lieutenant Caulfax?”
To Boldly Thrust Where No Man Has Gone Before
Beyond belief. An Army lieutenant invites me meet him at a motel. I’m to get a room at the Dew Drop Inn in the town of Lehi. Under the name ‘Shapiro.’ “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll pay. I’ll knock on your door after sundown.”
Incredible. I make sure I don’t have the duty that weekend, then I get a three-day pass and take off. As I’m going down the freeway, through Salt Lake City, up over the ridge and down into Utah County, headlines are flying through my mind:
Heroic Army Lieutenant Snags Air Force Homosexual in Daring Motel Sting
Psychopathic Lieutenant Kills Air Force MP in Motel
Air Force Sergeant Gets World’s Biggest Dose of Clap
Or even:
Air Force MP Arrested by Local Police, Unable to Pay Motel Bill
I’m a little worried. This has all the elements of a titanic fuck-up. But after all, I’m thinking with my dickhead.
The Dew Drop Inn is a fuck-up all by itself. Like a giant outhouse. Cracked stucco walls. Chipped white paint. Green roof missing a few shingles. Cheap a/c units in the windows. Class joint.
In the office, a fat, sweaty guy lounges behind the counter. He don’t get up when I walk in.
“I need a room.”
“Sign in.”
Simple as that. I sign in as Carl Shapiro. No ID, no “see your driver’s license.” Twenty bucks a night. I pay in cash.
Room
7 is a trip. Smells like the wrestling room. Stuffy. Sweaty. Moldy. What a dump. One window in the east wall lets in the terrible Utah midday sun, and when I turn on the air conditioner, clouds of dust blow out of it. God, the room is hot. And the smell! Besides the close, woody aroma of an old building, it’s got the heady stink of sweat. Fucking has gone on in this room. I catch the scent of jockstraps and that bleachy musk of jizz.
Romantic place. Probably the lieutenant’s usual love-spot. I got to admit, though, it telegraphs what he wants–this dump can’t mean anything but getting laid in the stench of sweat, balls, and sperm.
He also gave me a “liquor allowance,” so I set up a little “buffet table”: four bottles of Cutty Sark Scotch (him being an officer and all), a six-pack of Diet Coke, and two glasses.
About a half hour later, I get a knock at the door. It’s Caulfax. He hurries in and shuts the door behind him. Can’t blame him–I’d hate to be spotted even in the same neighborhood as this dump.
We look into each other’s eyes, and instantly we’re in each other’s arms. He’s taking the lead, which bothers me. His finger touches my mouth as he moves closer. Next his tongue licks my upper lip. Then the lower. Then his tongue slides into my mouth.
Whoa, good kisser! I’m tingling for him. Haven’t been this horny in weeks. But I don’t like being kissed. I’m the kisser.
I’m ready for the ungh-ungh, but he wants–can you believe it?–romance. He wants drinks. He’s the bitch, so he pours us both a Scotch & Coke, shaken not stirred. “To tonight!”
“To tonight.” We clink glasses and drink. Damn. Never had Scotch before. And this must be class stuff. Fucking $9 a bottle. Like rich folk drink. I sink back in the chair. “Scotch. The drink of kings.”
“I told you to get kaçak bahis 12-year-old stuff, Kernigin.”
“Yeah, but I could get twice as much of this stuff. It’s the same, ain’t it?” Never been that big a judge of Scotch (never had any before), but the stuff was fine by me. I had another. And another. And another.
And another.
I think he did, too, but I dunno. The rest is sort of a blur. I watch him take his clothes off, and I’m hotter and hotter the more skin I see. When he’s nude, he comes over, and I let him strip me. When he pulls my jockstrap to the side, “Damn! It’s huge!”
I’ve got a good six, maybe seven inches. I wouldn’t say “huge,” but if Caulfax wants to think of it that way, I ain’t gonna argue. “You’ve got a fucking man’s cock[,” he goes on, “long and thick!”
Okay, in all honesty, I don’t think I’ve got anything special. Not any bigger than anybody else’s in the shower room, but both of us are hot and horny, and I roll with the feeling. I got one thing, though, I’ve gotta be the one in charge. He oughta know that.
“That means I’m on top.” I say it soft, but I mean it.
“Fair enough, Sarge.” I get a roaring in my ears as he grabs my stiffie. “C’mon, Sarge.” His voice is low and deep, Caulfax trying to sound manly–but he gives in like a bitch. “Make me suck your giant cock.”
Make me? That’s a new one on me. What the hell: “Give it a kiss, Lieutenant. It’s salty, you’ll like it.” I raise my voice. “Do it!”
He wants to. Damn, he wants to. He kneels, and his lips schlonk onto me like a sump drain, his eyes glowing. When he looks up at me, I see a cum-slut. I pull him up, push him back onto the bed, and I swing my leg over him, straddling his chest.
The lips on that man! My bazooka is in a fucking washing machine! And when he hits the Spin Cycle, the pleasure is so intense it brings tears to my eyes. Hell, I can hardly keep my balance, swinging back and forth over him.
I lose it when his finger works into my asshole. I don’t take it in the rear end, but it feels good, and panting for dear life, I peak and fill his mouth with gobs of Kernigin.
After a couple of minutes of gulping–and drooling pearly slime from the sides of his mouth–Caulfax finally looks up at me and gurgles, “I love the taste of your stuff.” He licks his lips “Sticks to the roof of my mouth.”
After a couple of minutes, I roll over and off him. He rolls over and gets up, for a second on his hands and knees, and in that second I work a finger into his backside. He looks back. “There’s no way that big cock of yours will ever get inside me, stud,” but he stops there, posing on hands and knees, legs spread. Ready.
He’s going for it! I’m going to breed an officer! But I want to look into the eyes of this conquest, so I push him over onto his back again and lift his legs, holding onto his ankles. An officer about to be torpedoed by a sergeant. We hear people talking as they walk by outside, and for a moment, we are silent, worried.
“Want me to tie you up?” I mutter. “Go easier on you if we get caught.”
He writhes under me. “I want my hands free so I can hold onto that muscular, heaving back! I want my legs free so I can wrap them around your lunging ass!” He rares his head back, eyes clenched shut. “Fuck me, you bastard! Shoot that hot spooge into my guts!”
Damn, this is actually getting a little scary. Horny as I am, I ain’t never been that berserk.
But on the other hand, his cheeks are spread and ready for me. I pull back the foreskin to reveal the pointed mushroom of my cockhead, still slick from his spit and unswallowed sperm, and I work the nozzle against his rear end.
I push, and he stretches around me like an elevator door opening. Fuck, he’s no virgin. Then I think about STDs. Again the headlines:
Air Force Sergeant Dies in Agony of HIV
But what the hell, I’m in him now. I push deeper.
“Ahh, god, my ass can’t take all that cock.” His moan sounds horny, but hey, I’ve fucked inflatable dolls that were tighter. Not that he isn’t a hot piece of ass. My huevos are so hot and heavy, they swing back and forth between my legs.
I feed every last inch up his shitter, letting myself go, the pace building until I’m plowing for all I’m worth. He’s yelling to me to speed up or slow down, but I can’t understand. I ain’t in control; my body is.
The Call of the Wild
Together we climb the Stairway to Heaven, my cock in him to the root, then pulling back out to the slurping music of man-sex. What a pounding! I don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking turned on. I don’t know how long it goes on, 20 minutes, a half-hour, and then, in a dazed, drugged-out roar, Caulfax hollers, “I’m close now, Kernigin. Cumming!”
I’m close, too, but in a final defiant moment, I wonder if a man could be forced to, like reveal, say, military secrets as he goes crazy in a climax. I pull out my organ.
“What? What?? NO! God, no! Put it back in!!”
I sink it in, to his whining pleasure, but I put my mouth close to his hear. “How come they call Dugway the new Area 51?”
“UFOers–think–strange building–Michaels Airfield–alien craft.”
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